


Loup Garou

by voicedimplosives



Series: The Critterverse [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cryptozoology, Established Relationship, F/M, Loup-garou | Rougarou, New Orleans, Road Trips, X-men - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: Legends come in all shapes, sizes, and levels of volatility.





	1. les voilà partis!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But following General Andrew Jackson's great victory over the British at the Battle of New Orleans, there appeared even more evidence that the tales of the Indians and Kentiauks might have borne some truth: the graves of many soldiers buried in the fields of St. Bernard's parish after the battle had been found disturbed and the remains dragged from their coffins and partially devoured on the spot. This, pronounced everyone from priest to shaman, could only be the work of the loup-garou. 
> 
>  The Basque butchers would certainly have been acquainted with the superstitions surrounding the 'loup-garou'; the man-wolves were well known in the lore of France.”  
> 
> 
> ######  _The Werewolf Book: The Encyclopedia of Shape-Shifting Beings_ , Brad Steiger

#### New Orleans, Louisiana

“Ma'am, let's just go through this one more time. Nice and slow, so I'm sure I understand it,” the police officer said politely, shifting forward in his seat and offering a stiff smile to the dark-haired woman sitting across the table from him. “Alright now. You were in a club. Which one was it, again?”

She sighed exasperatedly, her fingernails clicking against the vinyl tabletop as she drummed her fingers. “We were to Blue Nile. I already told you dis, twice! Ton nad mais craz!”

“We're just processing it all, making sure we got a clear idea what happened, ma'am,” the officer's partner added from his folding chair, where he was slumped down, his legs crossed. He sat beside the first cop, but where the first man's posture was intent, engaged, he had been idly picking at the dirt under his nails for the duration of the interview.

“Uh, yeah. You know how it is, devil in the details. What was on tonight?”

“I don't know! I wasn't caring, t'was just a girl's night. I was dere wit some friends.”

“Alright,” the first officer said, “But then you left early, is that correct?”

Her fingers continued to drum against the table. “Mais, I wasn't feeling well,” she muttered, “I was tired, yeah. So I told 'em I was done and fixed to leave. Called up an Uber.”

“And then?” the second officer drawled, smirking lazily at her. She shot him a dark look and he stifled the expression.

“I... saw somethin', up da road. 'Twas tall, and hairy. Like a beast.” Resentment at their restrained disbelief began to boil over and she shouted, “I don't care what y'all think! I know what I saw! Dat thing was not fuckin' human, no! Kee-yawww, it was de Loup-Garou. I know it. He was fixin' to attack me, if my Uber had not showed up den dere! Mais, y'all got a damn werewolf rodier-ing around, and you fils de putain jus' sittin' here askin' questions! What, you ca-ca poul?”

The men stoically exchanged a glance, and the second officer shrugged, chuckling. The first looked down at the witness statement, scribbling a few more lines of notes while she watched him, her eyes glittering with belligerence. Finally he finished, pressing the ball of the pen into the paper to cross his last 't' with zest, then glanced up at her.

“I think it's all down here,” he began, “We're goin' go patrol, look around. Maybe you were just seeing a masker comin' home from a party, but we'll make a pass to Blue Nile anyways.”

“Mais,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and nodding. “Good.”

“You want somebody bring you home?” the second officer offered in a suggestive, lilting tone. She narrowed her eyes at him, and shook her head.

“Told my Uber to wait for me,” she hissed angrily, rising from her rickety chair. “We done now?”

“Yes ma'am,” the first officer said to her back, as she had already pulled open the heavy door of the quiet windowless room they'd been sitting in together, and had one foot out in the hallway.

“Hey, cherie!” the second officer called, and she paused, her profile barely visible as she turned her head minutely, only enough to acknowledge that the man was speaking to her. He laughed, saying, “Loup-Garou is not real, no. You should be careful, telling that story to people.”

“Bet-mon-chu,” she growled under her breath, before letting the door fall closed behind her.

## 

⚜

#### New Orleans, somewhere along I-10 East

“Hello, Big Easy!” Darcy whooped, sitting up straighter in the passenger seat as Bucky slowed the car, taking the exit ramp off the freeway. “I can't believe I only stayed one night the last time I was here. And I can't believe we didn't get to experience all this together! Definitely calls for a do-over. Can we get some muffuletta sandwiches? And some gumbo? And, oh my god, po' boys! We're going to eat so much shrimp, babe. Like, prepare yourself.”

“Your wish, my command, sweetheart,” Bucky grunted, then pointed at the phone in her lap, “Now focus on your job, and tell me which way to the motel.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, which made him roll his eyes tiredly, so she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, batting her eyelashes in a mockery of piety before leaning back and reading out the directions from her phone. She slid her left arm along the back of his neck, rubbing her thumb into the tense muscles she found there, while she navigated him towards the pastel pink guesthouse where they would be sleeping for the next few nights.

After checking in, the kindly old owner hobbled up the grandiose staircase to show them to their room, small but comfortable and much to Bucky's satisfaction, at the back of the building. Darcy laughed nervously and bowed haltingly towards her, feeling insecure in the face of the woman's obsequious manners. After smiling warmly and mentioning there would a cocktail hour on the patio later, she ducked out of the room, leaving them alone. Darcy turned to find Bucky standing at the foot of matching twin beds. He was glaring at them, his face turned downwards in an angry pout, and Darcy sighed. She crept up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and turned her head to rest her cheek against his back.

“What did the beds do to hurt you, Bucky?” she teased. “So they messed up and gave us twins. Whatever, we'll make a nest on the floor. Camping throwback! It'll be fun. We'll find some marshmallows and start a campfire out on the balcony.” She felt him inhale deeply and pull away, moving up the space between the beds and sinking down onto one with a sigh.

“Hey Grumpy Cat, talk to me. You've been in a funk all morning. Was it Steve's phone call?” Bucky's oldest friend had rang Darcy's phone the night before, and the two men had spoken for a half an hour, Bucky's end of the conversation consisting mostly of affirmative grunts, negative grunts, and the occasional begrudging 'I know, Steve'.

He shrugged, continued to stare down at the clenched fists resting on his strong thighs. Darcy fidgeted for a moment, waiting for him to look at her, and when he didn't she began to poke around the room, inspecting the mahogany writing desk then shuffling over to peek her head inside the bathroom. She whirled back towards Bucky, who was absently staring out the french doors onto the backyard terrace, and paced over to him. She grabbed his hand and hauled him up, tugging on his metallic hand. He came willingly, although he offered no comment, simply quirked an eyebrow at her sly grin.

When she reached the threshold of the bathroom she stepped aside and lightly shoved him in, then followed. He pulled up short at the sight of a massive clawfoot tub, big enough to host a very freaky Avengers party. He let out a surprised huff, and turned to her with his head tilted dubiously.

She blew an air kiss as she maneuvered around him and reached over the lip of the tub to pull open the two taps, before dropping the plug into the drain. Steam began to rise as the massive bath slowly filled. “So,” she began, now that she finally had his attention, “Here's the plan. We're gonna take, just like, a wicked sexy bubble bath together, then we'll build a bed nest on the floor so we can take a much-needed nap, and then we'll go do a little exploring. Maybe try to talk to some people, see if we can pinpoint a good place to start looking for this mythical Loup Garou. Yes?”

Bucky nodded despite himself, and by way of agreement, took the hem of his t-shirt in hand, pulling the garment over his head. He never tired of Darcy's reaction to seeing him shirtless, and she was laying it on thick now, fanning herself and pretending to faint. His lips twitched, just for a moment.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice rough and deep. He moved closer, his hand reaching out to fiddle with the edge of the slouchy jersey shirt-dress she was wearing.

“Want me to take it off?” she asked, pursing her lips and widening her eyes, once again imitating innocence itself.

“Nah, angel,” he mumbled, as he pressed a gentle kiss right below her jaw, one hand moving towards her shoulder blade to keep her from falling back into the tub, “I want me to take it off.”

She slid one leg up his thigh and dug the heel of her foot into the base of his spine, pulling him so close they almost toppled down into the mammoth tub were it not for Bucky's quick reflexes and a mechanized arm shooting out to grab onto the faucet, steadying himself. “Then what're you waiting for, sarge?” she asked, her voice husky, her words heavy and dripping with want, “An invitation? Consider yourself invited.” 

## 

⚜

After about fifteen minutes of strolling down the broad, rollicking Bourbon Street, Darcy glanced back to see Bucky's eyes darting constantly from one laughing drunken face to the next, his shoulders hunched, a cagey grimace pulling at his lips, and declared that she'd seen enough. He simply nodded jerkily at that, taking her hand and all but carrying her back to the Chevelle.

“Now what?” he asked, moving to start the car. Her hand on his made him pause, and when he glanced at her she was shaking her head.

“Wait here,” she murmured, climbing back out of the car. “I'll just be a second.” She was gone for longer than that, Bucky noted silently as he watched the minutes tick away on his phone, but he quelled his anxiety by pulling out the knife he'd strapped around his ankle and flipping it smoothly from hand to hand. Around and around it spun, and the faster it spun from finger to finger, the further his mind detached. Bucky was barely cognizant of his hands now, he was lost to his thoughts, silently weighing the heavy words Steve had said to him the night before.

_“I miss you, pal. And we need you here.”_

They were like fluid in his lungs, clogging up the works, making it hard to breathe. Steve had told him he could take his time coming home, but it was obvious from their conversation that his oldest friend was less then thrilled when Bucky had taken him at his word.

Time. He just needed more time. Why had there been so much of it when he was barely a man, forced into unthinkingly carrying out endless gruesome missions, and now that he felt a life for himself slowly beginning to bloom before his eyes, it seemed there was never enough of it?

The door yanked open, and Darcy plopped herself down in the passenger seat, ungainly but face flushed with happiness and success. She grinned at him knowingly, shaking a white paper bag in his direction. A heavenly smell, fried dough and sugar, began to fill the car.

“Okay,” she said. “Beignets acquired. Let's drive somewhere.”

Bucky turned over the engine, shifting gears as he pulled away from the curb and tried to navigate them away from the French Quarter, towards the highway. He drove slowly, noticing that Darcy's eyes were glued to the rows of stately homes they were passing. It was a beautiful city, he could admit that much. Even if his guilt and anxiety about the future were restricting his ability to enjoy all of this, seeing Darcy so happy was still enough to carry him through.

“Where to?” he asked softly, not wanting to interrupt the calm quiet that had sunken in between them but needing to know where to go.

“Take a left on Esplanade Avenue up here, we'll go north until we get to City Park then find a quiet place around there. Good plan?” She smiled at him tentatively.

“Perfect,” he breathed, forcing a smile, and reached for a hand to kiss her knuckles before turning his attention back to the road.

## 

⚜

Within Couterie Forest, under an ancient, gnarled oak tree, its limbs bent low to brush the dry grass and the spanish moss growing on them swaying languidly in the cool evening air, there was an old picnic table. The chipped red paint came away when Darcy slipped her finger under a particularly large flake, and she toyed with it, twisting it between her fingers until it began to crumble. She stole a glance at Bucky, but his head was turned. Only the faint orange glow of a distance trail lamp illuminated his profile; the solid lines of his shoulders and neck, his strong nose, his full lips, his dimpled chin, his brows drawn together darkly.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Darcy whispered, taking her final bite of the last beignet then licking the sweet powdered sugar off her lips.

He shrugged.

“It's Steve again, isn't it?”

Another shrug.

“Well, when you want...” she trailed off, unsure what to offer. She pushed her glasses up her nose, then fiddled with her hair. “I'm here.”

“Thanks doll.” He cocked his head, and turned his head towards her. Darcy offered him a small smile, only he wasn't looking at her, but something just above her left shoulder. His apprehensive scowl had hardened into an expression more urgent, alarmed even, and he was squinting at something off in the distance. She rose an eyebrow but he shook his head, not sparing her a glance. “Don't move.”

With that he pushed himself up from the table's attached bench, raised his legs to free himself and took a step back. He pulled his hunting knife from where it'd been concealed under his pant leg and moved around the table, past Darcy. His free hand brushed her shoulder reassuringly, although his movements were still careful, his expression wary. Then he was gone, moving across the small clearing and towards the shadowy thicket of cypress trees behind her.

Darcy followed his instructions for about a minute after he'd been swallowed up by the darkness. She looked down at the paint chip in her palm, peeled another piece from the weathered, grey wood of the table, crushed them together, and whispered to herself with a shake of the head, “Fuck it.”

And then she was up, scurrying through the long, thin blades of wiregrass in the clearing between their oak tree and the forest where Bucky had disappeared. “Bucky!” she hissed, peering into the murk desperately.

She had just fished her phone out of her jacket pocket and turned on the flashlight, shining it on her surroundings to attract his attention and guide her way, when she heard a deep, bellowing growl rumble out from somewhere ahead of her. Darcy gasped, fear lancing through her veins, and she called again, louder this time, “Bucky!”

“Behind you,” he whispered into her ear, the sudden warmth of his body causing her to jump slightly. She dropped the phone but he caught it, killing the light and tucking it back in her pocket. “Quiet,” he breathed into her ear, “Shoulda known you wouldn't stay put. Come on, this way.” With that, his free hand found hers, their fingers lacing, and he pulled her along deeper into the ghostly thicket. The heavy weight of dread pulled her feet down, making her slow and clumsy, and chimerical illusions began to dance at the periphery of her vision. The leaves rustling together in the light breeze suddenly sounded more like an animal crunching around in the dry undergrowth, and the wind carried the metallic, sour smell of a bleeding animal towards them.

“What... what...” she mumbled, stumbling along.

“Behind the tree,” he muttered, pulling her body behind his. He was looking at something, about fifteen feet away, and Darcy squinted, trying to follow his line of sight. When she saw the tall, furry shape looming over a large lump that lay unmoving on the ground, she inhaled sharply, her fear spiking higher still.

“What the hell is it?”

“Don't know. Pretty sure it can hear us.”

“How do you know?” Her arm reached up to grab Bucky's bicep, needing to feel the solid weight of him to help ground herself.

“It's looking for us,” he whispered calmly. Darcy's eyes shot back towards the thing. As it moved she could see that it was tall, that it walked on two legs. The moonlight marbled the forest floor, breaking through the thick branches intermittently, and at that moment the creature stepped into an illuminated patch. It seemed purposeful, for there it froze, watching them, its dark eyes glittering like obsidian in the pale light, gleeful malice dancing across its face. He was male, she realized with a shock. That was a man's face, underneath blonde eyebrows and beard so overgrown he could easily have passed for something more bestial. The suggestion of werewolf flitted hysterically across the surface of Darcy's mind. His hands came up, and he cracked his knuckles, just like a human might. The action highlighted his thick, sharp, vicious-looking claws; blood dripped from their tips onto the leaves beneath his large feet. As he snarled once more he revealed a double set of sharp canine teeth at the edges of his mouth. The creature lifted his face as he sniffed at the air, then shifted every so slightly, his black eyes boring directly into hers. He smirked.

“Shit,” she hissed.

The thing started to move, and Darcy realized that he was not actually covered in fur, but wearing a long fur coat and leather pants, a rough burlap-colored shirt underneath parted down to his sternum revealed a chest covered in thick, dark hair. Bucky pushed her back, pivoting and beginning to run.

“What're we doing?” she panted, trying to keep up with him.

“I don't have a firearm with me, that thing's about seven feet tall, and that is definitely blood on his face. We're not sticking around to chat,” Bucky said, halting and spinning all of a sudden then pushing his shoulder into Darcy's mid-section before hauling her over his shoulder effortlessly. “Hey!” she cried out as her world spun violently, settling again but wrong, upside-down, her entire torso bobbing as Bucky began to run once more.

“Sorry, angel,” he said between gritted teeth, pulling her legs close to his chest and picking up speed, “But we need to hustle.”

“I get that, just give a little warning next time!” she squeaked, slinging her arms around his waist to stabilize herself.

By the time they reached the parking lot, whatever it was had gotten bored of following them. They were alone, Bucky barely out of breath from his exertions but Darcy breathing heavily from the adrenaline, when he settled her back on her feet beside the Chevelle's passenger door.

“In,” he grunted, striding around the front of the car.

“Don't have to tell me twice,” she shot back, already climbing into the seat and locking her door behind her. “Get us the fuck outta here, sarge!”

## 

⚜

“Merde,” the police officer muttered, leaning against a cypress tree as the forensic team photographed and collected specimens from the grisly sight before him.

“I don't want to say it, but...” the second officer started, taking a sip of coffee from his paper cup.

“Then don't,” the first ground out, a headache pounding at his temples.

“Mais, we got a dead police horse here, half-eaten and jus' laying in the park, and it's definitely from our stables across the way. Who does this? How'd they even get it?” second officer asked.

“I know,” first officer groaned, “I know. Just don't say it.”

“Say what? That this looks like the work of a Loup-Garou?” Second officer broke out into a shit-eating grin, but tried to hide it by taking another sip of his coffee.

“Yes. That. Please don't say that again, out loud, to anyone,” the first muttered resignedly, before stepping forward to confer with the forensic team. The second officer shrugged, finishing his coffee and tossing the cup into the grass nearby, then followed.

## 

⚜

Even after they'd returned to the guesthouse, it still took Darcy another half an hour to get her wildly racing heartbeat to calm down, her hands to stop shaking, her fear to abate. She sat in their nest on the floor, between Bucky's legs, his solid torso a comforting support for her back and his large hands a reassuring weight as they rested firmly on her stomach. She sank her head back against his shoulder, the better to allow him to lean down and breathe deeply against the skin of her neck, while they both tried to process what the hell they'd just seen.

“So...” she began, at last, “Werewolves are real, maybe?”

Bucky sighed. “Maybe.”

“Any alternate theories?”

He sighed again. “I'm really tryin', but I'm coming up blank.”

“Me too,” she said in a small, scared voice. “It looked angry. And mean. And like it wanted to kill us. And I think it was in the middle of...”

“Yeah,” he cut her off. “It had definitely just finished hunting... something.”

Darcy nodded, grateful for his delicate phrasing. “Now's the point where we call somebody, right?”

Bucky paused, thinking about his and Steve's conversation. About how much his old friend wanted him to come back to New York already, about the heavy expectations that were waiting for him there. About Tony's hostility, where'd they left things. “Nah,” he said, “Not yet. We can try and deal with this ourselves first. We'll go back tomorrow, armed, see if we can find it again.”

“It looked like... a him. Do you think it was a him?” Darcy asked.

Bucky shrugged, burrowing his face into her hair. “Don't know, angel.”

She turned back to him, looking up at his face. She must have seen something there that answered whatever other questions she had, because she nodded decisively. “Okay. We'll go back tomorrow with some guns. _We_. Don't even think about trying to do it alone, without me, you got that?”

“Wouldn't dream of it, darlin',” he drawled, his lips teasing the shell of her ear.

“Good,” she said, and with a hmph, she settled back into his chest. “Until then, you gonna brood some more or you gonna entertain me?”

She could feel Bucky's lip curl slightly upwards against her neck, where he was gently mouthing at her jugular. “Got something in mind?”

“Of course I do,” she panted, already starting to feel worked up as his hands traveled south, “But I'm always open to suggestions, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back with another story in this verse because, y'know, who doesn't love werewolves? If that's what we're dealing with. Is it?? Hmmm. Quick note: I am terribly sorry if I went too far or not far enough with the New Orleans details/my attempt at writing the Creole accent. If I made mistakes, please let me know! I'm just going off what I found on the internet, and also I am but a mere fanfiction writer. So anything that you read where you're like, uh that's not right? It's either me trusting strangers on the internet to teach me about New Orleans too much or a typo. But I'm happy to fix anything that's not right!


	2. l'intrigue se corse...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "LARRY TALBOT: Do you believe in werewolves, doctor?
> 
> DOCTOR LLOYD: I believe a man lost in the mazes of his own mind may imagine that he’s anything."
> 
> ######  _The Wolf Man_. Dir. George Waggner. Universal Pictures, 1941.

#### New Orleans, Louisiana

“Darcy...” a soft rasp, a puff of air on the nape of her neck, and she was awake. She took a moment to assess her surroundings, the early morning fog lifting as she remembered that she and Bucky had stripped the twin beds' linens and made their cozy pallet on the floor where they now lay spooning. She pushed herself back, rubbing against the source of the whispering, and was rewarded with a slow twist of his pelvis towards her. Reaching up for the glasses resting on the bare mattress above her head, she rolled over to look at him.

“Mmm, good morning,” she said in a low voice, tucking her face under his chin to kiss the sensitive, stubbly skin there. “Sleep okay?”

“Well enough. You?” he answered, his voice equally hushed. They'd both come to need this, their quiet early morning moments, falling asleep together wearing nothing more than a smile then waking to the contact of the others warm body. It'd become a habit, an addiction, helping each other gently rise to full wakefulness, sometimes by coupling and sometimes simple conversation.

Darcy took stock of herself; her neck was a little stiff, and her right hand was numb where her fingers had rested, curled, under her head, but otherwise she felt good. A little twitchy, but good. She flung a leg over Bucky's firm thigh, nodded against his jaw, and grinned happily to herself when she felt his cool metal fingers tracing the dramatic curve of her hip. “Good,” he said simply. His hand continued up, following the tuck of her waist before brushing the backs of his fingers against the side of her breast. He retraced his path, moving past her hip to her full thigh and jerking when he reached the back of her knee, bringing her closer.

She moaned softly and rolled her hips to let him know they were on the same wavelength. His heavy erection had nestled between her legs, and she was sure he could feel the heat, the slick moisture that had begun to gather there.

“If you're coming with me tonight, then we're going to spend a little time today on some target practice,” he rumbled gently in her ear, his hand running up the back of her thigh to her rounded butt cheek, caressing it with reverence.

“You gonna teach me how to handle a gun, sergeant?” she teased, reaching down to take his firm, twitching member in hand.

“Clearly don't need my help with that,” he gasped, rutting into her fist, “just want to make sure your aim is true.”

“It's true when it counts,” she whispered, directing him towards her core, rubbing the length against the sensitive, inflamed flesh there.

He panted at that. Lunging forward, he just breached her, the thick head teasing her entrance, so he thrust again more forcefully, sinking in to the hilt. Both of their eyes slid closed as they processed the ever-potent rush that came when they joined like this, still half-asleep and loose-limbed. By the time Bucky sought out Darcy's plush mouth, his tongue teasing at her bottom lip until she opened up for him like she always did, letting him in, letting him have whatever he needed at exactly the pace he needed it, she was undulating against him. Making it good for him, for both of them. His girl, always taking care of him.

“You're right,” he murmured against her lips, tracing the delicate arc of her neck down to her graceful collarbone as he began to move his own hips in earnest, delighting in her breathy groans, “but we'd better practice... just to be sure.”

## 

⚜

Later, after the sun had dipped below the drooping limbs of the magnolia and live oak trees, the day's swampy warmth having thickened into a cool, dense fog, they warily stepped out of the Chevelle and began to retrace the path they'd taken the night before, making their way back into Couterie Forest.

But they were armed to the teeth this time, Bucky carrying his Colt M4 Carbine and Darcy a backpack loaded with extra rounds. They both had holsters strapped to their sides, hers holding a Ruger revolver and his a Glock 17. He'd also tucked a few knives into various pieces of clothing and she was holding her taser aloft in one hand, her phone in the other illuminating their way as they stepped off the park's walking trail and into the gloomy, fog-swamped trees.

They were as ready as they'd ever be, but still not ready enough.

There was no warning growl this time, no posturing or moment of careful scrutinizing between parties, there was simply a snapped branch in the distance and enough time for Bucky to whirl on his heel, shoving Darcy back into a thicket of swamp sweetbells. Then the creature was on top of him, digging his thick yellow claws deep into Bucky's ribs as he dragged him to the forest floor.

Darcy flinched hard at the sound of Bucky's pained howl, then again at the creature's satisfied bellow when he used the momentum from tumbling her man to the ground to fling him into the trunk of a nearby oak tree. Her hands shook as she checked her taser, found it fully charged, and stood up with only a slight wobble. The fog was thick enough to slightly obscure the men from her, but the movement drew both of their attention, and the creature tilted his shaggy blonde head at her, his fathomless eyes narrowing with interest.

“C'mon then,” Darcy taunted, her voice wavering slightly. “Get on with it, asshole!” He was advancing towards her, his lips curling back into a grim smile, when suddenly his chest began heaving violently, the murky atmosphere ringing with the sound of an automatic weapon being fired. Bullet after bullet burst through the front of his stained, ragged shirt, and he fell to his knees, snarling with rage at the sight of his own shredded torso. Bucky was standing behind him, Colt still held aloft in his hands as he waited, expecting the thing to crumple lifelessly.

And indeed, for a moment the blonde behometh slumped, his head falling onto his chest as the exit holes transformed the ugly brown garment into a bloody Rorschach test, the deep crimson blots seeping outwards from each hole until they began to connect. Yet the thing did not completely collapse, but hovered there on his knees, breathing slowly.

Bucky beckoned to Darcy and she cut a wide path around their injured attacker, sidling from tree to tree until she reached Bucky, who thrust her behind his solid bulk before raising his weapon once more. She reached up to feel his ribs, and found there was blood leaking sluggishly from the four puncture wounds the thing had left in each of his sides.

The thing's head rose and—staggering, slowly, dazed—it began to stand.

“How...” she breathed, her horror stealing any of the words that might have followed.

“God dammit,” was the only response she got from Bucky, before he threw the gun to the ground. “In your backpack, Darce, there are silver bullets. Load your gun. Wait until you have a clear shot.” With that, he pulled a deadly-looking hunting knife from where it'd been strapped against his thigh and stepped closer to the still-recovering beast.

He looked up at that, and laughed so viciously, so darkly, that Darcy unconsciously took a step back. Then another. She kept going until she hit an ancient live oak, sliding under its large bent branch and shuffling around to the back of it so she could pull the backpack from her shoulders and rifle through the small front pocket. Instinctively she knew that'd be where Bucky had hidden them, and sure enough, there they were. The silver bullet gleamed when she held it up to the moonlight. She hastily pulled the gun from her holster, releasing the cylinder so that she could slide the specialty ammunition inside before reloading.

When she looked up she could just make out that the two of them were locked arm-in-arm, and to her dismay she realized that the thing's brute strength matched all the force in Bucky's cybernetic arm, pound for pound. Bucky tore free of the dangerous embrace, stepping back slightly to regain his bearings then dropping down in an attempt to sweep the legs. But the other was already ready for him, his thick claws threading through Bucky's hair until he had a firm grip and yanking him back up onto his toes. Bucky yowled, kicking out at the thing, and in a strained voice he cried, “Now, Darcy!”

She stepped out from behind the trunk of the oak, took one full, deep breath, centering herself and taking the moment she needed to aim the revolver properly. She had a clean shot of the thing's heart, and without another moment's hesitation, she took it. Her bullet struck true. He staggered once more, dropping Bucky as he shuffled backwards, holding his hand to his chest. For a moment time stood still, and then... nothing. He pulled his gloved palm away, sniffed at his own blood, and wiped it on his leather pant leg, looking up at her with another nasty grin.

“That wasn't very nice, girlie,” he gnarred, his rumbling words barely more than a basso slash through the still, wet air. “But I'll forgive you, if you beg nicely.”

Bucky's knife buried deep in his thigh interrupted whatever he was about to do next, and with a snarl he reached for the dark-haired man, but this time Bucky was ready, swinging up to land a solid kick to his beard-covered jaw. The thing recoiled, and Bucky pushed himself up, delivering a bruising metallic punch to his ribs, then another right where his kidney ought to be. Before the fear completely paralyzed her, Darcy crouched to the ground and retrieved the taser from where she'd dropped it. She flung herself towards the blur of violence—thick muscular arms were swinging wildly as blows were exchanged between the men—and Darcy was terrified, but when she saw an opening she reached her arm in between them, aiming the weapon directly against the vulnerable bare skin of the creature's lower neck and releasing the charge. 

The probes sank into his tender flesh. The thing began to shake as the fifty thousand volts of electricity were transmitted through the insulated wires, into the probes, and then flowed directly into his system.

This time, when he sank to his knees, he collapsed fully, his body quivering grotesquely for one long fraught moment before he lay still.

“Bucky,” she wailed, distraught, and he was there, his arms around her.

“It's alright angel, you did good. You did so good. Come on, we're leaving. We're done here, let's go,” he whispered into her ear, taking the taser from her hand and dropping it beside their assailant on the forest floor.

“But—” she started.

“I'll buy you another one sweetheart, I'll buy you an entire warehouse of 'em, but right now we gotta go.”

“Yeah,” she warbled, her head bobbing mindlessly, shock taking over. “Go.”

His hand was in hers then, leading her back out of the trees, towards the parking lot, their car, safety.

Neither of them spared a single look back at their fallen adversary. Not even one.

## 

⚜

“Well, it can't be a werewolf, because I'm telling you dude, I hit that son of a bitch bulls-eye dead center in the heart with the silver bullet and... nothin'. Nada. Nil. Zilch,” Darcy rambled, leaning farther onto the bar and staring down into the dark whiskey and coke resting between her hands. She lifted the glass, swallowing with loud gulps until the ice cubes knocked against her upper lip, then she slammed it back onto the sticky bar-top, leaning around Bucky to flag down the bartender. The grizzled woman working behind the bar nodded at her, and took the glass. A moment later a replacement was silently placed between her hands.

Bucky swirled his own double shot of neat vodka around inside the tumbler in a tight twisting motion, as though he was trying to auger the future from the liquor's invisible leavings. He exhaled heavily, his head sinking down. He'd driven them out of there as fast as the Chevelle could go, then continued driving aimlessly through the quiet shotgun house-lined streets of northern New Orleans for well over an hour until he found what looked to be a deserted dive bar tucked away on a dark, dead-end street. He'd dragged Darcy in, despite her protests that she was fine, and ordered for the both of them, settling her onto the bar stool next to his and letting his heavily muscled arm drape across her back just to assure himself that she was here, she wasn't hurt, she was safe.

She was safe. 

He exhaled again, his breath still slightly shaky from the adrenaline pumping through his system. She was safe and she'd saved his bacon. Again. He'd saved hers in the past, of course, and yet... when he looked at her in the dim lighting of this place she shone like a goddess, like his guardian angel. He leaned over, resting his face against the back of her shoulder. He breathed in the scent of her and the grip of his cybernetic hand on his drink tightened until the glass began to creak threateningly. He felt her delicate fingers dig into his thigh, her voice gently shushing him. He let go of the glass, moving his hand to hold onto the solid edge of the bar instead.

“So it's not a werewolf,” he muttered. “Or the Loup Garou. Whatever it is, that damn thing's invincible. I must've unloaded half a clip into its chest.”

She nodded at him, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Do you think... ugh, I don't know. I know that I'm all for believing in anything and everything but even this pushes me to my limits. Still...”

“What?”

She blinked, took a breath. “Enhanced individuals. Muh—mutants,” she stuttered. “I've heard rumors. But... I didn't...”

He shrugged. “Why not? After everything we've been through, why not that?” She nodded. She opened her mouth to respond when a tall, burly stranger sat down on the stool directly next to Bucky, on his left. The wood beneath his hand splintered slightly, his agitation surpassing his self control.

Their heads both shifted towards the swarthy, wild-haired man, a faded flannel shirt straining to contain his thick biceps as he bent his arms, leaning over the bar. “Bourbon, neat, whatever ya got on the bottom shelf is fine,” the man ground out around a half-smoked cigar he was holding between his back teeth, the thick smoke drifting over and tickling Darcy's nose. After the bartender nodded and poured him his drink, he plucked the cigar from his mouth so he could drain the drink in one go, motioning for another round. Then, without pretense, he swung himself around to look directly at Bucky and Darcy, who had been a silent audience for these actions.

“We talkin' bout mutants?” the man bit out at them, raising his glass in a toast. “Cheers.”

Darcy lifted her glass halfheartedly and Bucky touched his, not even bothering to move it, both of them still eyeing him with suspicion.

“Oh. Right. Name's... Wolverine. Hippie parents. So. We talkin' about mutants? Big dumb blonde ones maybe, like to get themselves into trouble?” the man asked again, his tone wry. He lifted the cigar back to his mouth and drew deeply from it, blowing the cloyingly-scented smoke out into the already hazy air.

“No.” Bucky's blunt answer was accompanied by a challenging lift of his eyebrow, his hand tightening on Darcy's waist.

“That's too bad, bub. 'Cause if we were, y'know, talkin' about mutants, and all the trouble they might be causin' a nice young couple like yourselves, I might be able to offer some advice,” Logan responded, shrugging nonchalantly. “Oh well.”

“Do you...” Darcy started, then grimaced at Bucky when he shot her a dark look. “Do you know something about a tall, blonde mutant? Hairy guy, kind of... er, violent?”

Logan smirked slightly, taking another puff of his cigar. “I might. Maybe ya should tell me what you've seen.”

“Maybe you should tell us what you know,” Bucky snapped.

The man simply raised his own eyebrow in response to that, scratching at the brown muttonchops growing along his jaw as he swung himself to face the bar again. He finished his second drink, and nodded.

“So ya seen him, huh? His name's Sabretooth. Ya should avoid him, if y'can. He's... not a very nice person.” He watched their reaction from the corner of his eyes, caught the quick look the dark-haired couple shared, and huffed softly to himself. “Yeah. But ya already know that, I'd bet. Where'd ya see 'im?”

“We—” Darcy began, but Bucky's hand squeezed her waist in warning and she paused.

He shook his head. “Didn't,” he finished. “We don't know what you're talking about.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at the man, releasing a thick puff of smoke directly into his face. “Bull. Shit,” he enunciated, quietly and clearly. Not aggressive, not hostile, just an observation of facts. “Maybe ya think I'm some dumb country asshole, but yer still bleeding through that shirt of yers, bub, and yer girl there looks like she just went ten rounds with her worst nightmare. Yer sittin' over here, gabbin' about invincible blond mutants loud enough that even I can hear ya from across the bar. Ya seen him, alright. Now tell me where.”

“Couterie Forest,” Darcy gasped, her fingers pressed into the hard muscle of Bucky's thigh preventing him from standing up, ready to pick a fight with the overly-observant stranger. “Near the water on the western side, across the bay from the police stables. Please don't start anything in here, either of you, I cannot fucking _stomach_ seeing any more violence tonight.”

Logan grinned, nodding agreeably, and stood up. “Ya should listen to yer girl... Sergeant Barnes,” he directed softly, under his breath, and pulled out his wallet, plucking a fifty and placing it on the bar alongside Bucky's drink. “This one's on me, pal. Thank ya for yer service... and yer help.”

And with that, he turned, striding confidently out of the bar like he hadn't a care in the world.

## 

⚜

“Enough flirting y'all, they finally got the footage from the stables' security feed,” the police officer said reprovingly to his partner. The second man looked up from where he was draped over the desk of the woman in charge of evidence lock-up, Mary or Martie or something. She glanced up at the second officer through her eyelashes, the silky dark hair falling into her face halfway hiding her coy smile. The other officer smiled back at her tenderly, brushing his fingertip down her single highlight—alabaster white—before winking and pushing himself up to follow the older man over to his desk.

Kids and their fashion these days, the tired officer thought, moving through the hallways. When he reached the communal office area he sank into his desk chair, pulling open one of his drawers and retrieving the nearly empty bottle of Aspirin from within. He shook two pills into his hand, chasing them down with a swill of his lukewarm coffee. It was going to be another long day, it seemed, especially when he had to drag around the dead weight of his unprofessional counterpart.

Said officer sank gracefully into the rolling chair he'd snagged from an empty desk across the aisle, wheeling himself towards the computer screen.

“Mais, podna, let's see what we got, yeah?” he prodded, nodding at the computer.

Had his accent always been so thick? It seemed to wax and wane depending on how much attention the man was paying to whatever was in front of him. Thinking back over their brief time together, the first officer felt a pang of alarm when he realized he couldn't remember exactly when they'd been assigned as partners. In fact, he suddenly noted, he could not remember the man's name. He must've been gawking at the other man, really noticing for the first time the long, roguish strands of dark hair that framed a face that now seemed far too handsome for police-work. He felt himself blushing, embarrassed at his inability to recall such simple details.

“I... I...” he blubbered, adrift and unsure.

“Where y'at?” the man asked, smiling genially. His eyes flashed oddly—maybe the light catching them at a strange angle, the man thought to himself—and suddenly he felt like himself again.

“Uh, okay. Anyway. The security feed. The boys down in tech pulled out the relevant bits for us,” he said, gaining confidence again as he turned to the computer, opening the USB key's folder and clicking on one of the files within. A video began to play, showing a hulking, hirsute blonde man silently stalking down the long stable's corridor, pausing to inspect each stall. He entered the second-to-last, his clawed hand running along the back of the horse stamping uneasily within, as he moved off-camera. Something happened, the horse's hindquarters could be seen kicking furiously, and without any other warning the animal began levitating in the air even as its legs went limp. A moment later its body turned and the man—creature—came back into frame, the horse slung around his shoulders as though it weighed no more than a knitted shawl.

“That's...” the officer heaved, unable to believe what he was seeing as the giant carried the motionless horse back the way he had come, down the long hallway of stalls and out of view of the camera.

“Sabretooth,” his partner murmured, his head down, rubbing at his eyes. “Ah was thinking so. Dank god, police work don't suit me no how, no. Mais. We know now, yeah.”

“What?” the officer asked, confused, his head swimming. The accent again. The headache throbbed in full force. “What the hell are you sayin'?”

“Now now, mon amie, let's not be angry angry wit Gambit. Jus' needed to keep dis cat inside dat lil' ol' bag, yeah. Look at me, podna.” 

The man's voice was soft, barely audible, and without thinking the police officer turned to him. A pair of contacts lay in the man's gloved hand and the officer frowned, his eyes flicking up to meet the other's gaze. The moment their eyes met he was filled with regret, understanding none of this yet knowing he'd been had, that he'd missed something important along the way. His supposed partner's eyes were dark, no whites, and his irises blazed a brilliant, burning scarlet. 

“Dat's right,” the man drawled, “Jus' look into mah eyes. You forgettin' some chose, isn't you? Can't remember Gambit's name, can't remember dat video you was just seein', can't remember none of it, seem like. Ah well. Better dis way, podna, trust dat. Now hand me dat disk key, yeah. Nice and slow slow.”

The man couldn't look away from those fiery rings, those unholy irises. The pupils were the same inky black as the rest of his eyes, and he felt like he was falling, falling away from his job and his kids and New Orleans and he could barely remember how to move, his own name, so he just sat there with his jaw hanging as he stared and stared. The second officer snorted softly to himself, shrugging apologetically, and reached past him to retract the small memory drive from the computer. Pocketing it, he stood up, his eyes still locked with his partner's.

“You gon' go do-do now, podna. You been workin' too hard, mmhmm. Some do-do is what you need. Time when you wake, you'da fuhgotten dis whole mess. Just git back to work den, yeah. You a good man,” he said gently, and with that, he finally blinked, breaking the eye contact. The officer's eyelids sank closed of their own volition, and for a long time afterwards, he knew only the blank nothing of a deep, dreamless sleep.

## 

⚜

“I know what you're gonna say,” Bucky said softly, not raising his eyes from Darcy's toes. She was almost completely submerged in the steaming, bubble-topped water. Only her head, her feet and her calves were elevated to perch on the lip of the giant clawfoot tub. One heel rested in the palm of Bucky's warm flesh hand, while the metallic fingers brushed a second coat of deep red over her big toe with enviable precision. Having finished, he sat back to admire his handiwork, then leaned forward once more to blow gently on the still-wet toenails. Darcy watched the movements passively, gazing at his scarred, chiseled torso, still bare after he'd yanked off his shirt so should could clean the rapidly-healing wounds Sabretooth had given him. Satisfied with his work, he switched his attention to the second coat on her other foot.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, lazily. “Tell me what I'm gonna say, then.”

“That it's time to call Steve, Tony, and all of the other sane, normal superheroes so they can figure this mess out,” he grumbled, sullen.

“Hey Bucky? News bulletin, this just in: there is literally no such thing as a sane superhero. You're all a buncha maniacs,” she murmured fondly, pursing her lips in amusement. “You're not wrong, though. I don't know who this Wolverine guy is, but he knows who you are—”

“That's not surprising, most of the country knows who I am, after the HYDRA data leak,” Bucky interjected.

“True,” she conceded, wiggling her toes just to irritate him. He tutted at her, arching an eyebrow, before returning to his delicate work. “Still. Maybe backup wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. And if you don't want that, then...”

He said nothing, his determination not to smudge the paint on her baby toe eclipsing his participation in the conversation. When he came back to himself, she was waiting for him, that soft look still playing across her face.

“Then?” he asked. “I'm open to suggestions, too, sweetheart.”

“Then it's probably to time to hit the road,” she sighed, humming happily when he began to rub his thumbs deep into the arch of her foot. He nodded silently, releasing the foot to pay the same attention to the other, before standing.

“I'll get us packed,” he mumbled. “Just relax a while.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she responded drowsily.

## 

⚜

“That's Victor, alright,” Logan grunted, impassively watching his brother's casual slaughter and theft of the police horse.

“Been some looong années passées since you been seeing dat grande beede rougarouin' around, yeah,” Remy teased, crossed arms resting on his chest and leaning against the wall of Logan's motel room as he re-watched the footage over the man's shoulder.

“Quit it with that french shit, asshole,” Logan muttered, shoving the desk chair back and standing abruptly. He paced to the window, glancing outside, then made several passes around the room, taking quick peeks back at the still-playing footage on the man's computer. “Ya deal with the cop?” he asked.

“Dat po po not gon' remember a hair of dis when he wake up,” Remy answered. “Like he took a long do-do. Rip van Winkle.”

Logan's glower told Remy exactly how the temperamental man felt about his continued usage of his native dialect, but the Cajun figured, fuck it. He'd known he was in for some do-gooder nonsense, after Logan and his compatriots had caught him and Marie trying to steal that painting from Professor Xavier's mansion, but he'd done his time, talking his way into the NOPD after Logan had gotten a tip that his feral brother was marauding around Remy's hometown. He'd used his considerable methods of persuasion to influence the investigation, making sure nobody on the force actually believed a feral mutant had taken up residence in their city.

He'd paid his dues back to the X-Men. Now it was time for them to take their creature and get the hell out of his city.

“We done done here,” he said, his low voice sinuous and menacing. He held a playing card in his hand, the ace of spades. It began to glow a brilliant vermilion as he charged it. “And you got to git dat Loup-Garou back up north where he belongs.”

Logan snorted, picking up his forgotten beer bottle from beside Remy's laptop and draining it. He nodded curtly, turning to pull his leather coat on.

“And you leave Rogue be. She done her part itou, she wanna go wichu den I don't stop her. She wan' stay here wid me, you don't stop her,” he added, his blood thrumming with anger at the thought of his beautiful partner-in-crime stuck behind a desk under ugly fluorescent lights in a sad corner of that police station, day in and day out, for the last couple weeks. Filing paperwork, drinking terrible coffee, making small talk. The damned inhumanity.

“She can do better than this,” Logan answered noncommittally, heading for the door. “But if she wants to keep slummin', we won't stop her. As for yer debts bein' squared, s'not my call. Ya gotta take that up with the big guy.”

“Embrasse moi tchew,” the red-eyed thief cursed at the Canadian's retreating back, turning and driving his foot angrily into the soft plaster of the motel wall.

## 

⚜

“Wait,” Darcy breathed, as he moved to start the car. He froze, looking over at the passenger seat of the Chevelle to see her staring back at him, wide-eyed and worried.

“Forget somethin'?” Bucky guessed.

“Just... if we're going to go running into the night without calling anyone to let them know about this... monster... rampaging around New Orleans, can I at least know why?” she asked, trying to keep the whining lilt out of her tone. Her frustration with Bucky's recalcitrance had reached its breaking point. Although she'd gone along with his idea to leave that night, placing a tip for their cleaning lady on the vanity and and their room key under the keyboard of the abandoned lobby's front desk, she hated that he was keeping his feelings so close to the chest. It felt like he was hiding something from her.

He sighed, sinking back into the leather cushion of his seat. “Stevie... he wants me to come back, get started on this whole idea of a life he's got planned out for me,” he mumbled, looking down at his gloved hands.

“Hasn't that been the plan since, you know, Umatilla?”

“He wants that plan to get started sooner than I do.” Bucky flopped his head along the headrest, gauging her reaction. She looked sympathetic.

“You just want us to have some more time, before we jump on-board the Avengers Express,” she said, speaking slowly as she sussed him out. He shrugged, then nodded.

“I... yeah. I want that too, babe. Steve... God love him, but that guy does not know how to read a room. He's just gonna have to wait for us. There's nobody threatening to blow up the world at this precise moment, and... he can survive a month without you. He got your entire youth, I only just met you, what, a month ago?”

“Month and half,” Bucky answered, a soft smile pulling at his mouth.

“We deserve this, James." Her big blue eyes blinked earnestly at him from behind her glasses. Bucky reached over to squeeze her hand gratefully, and she sniffled a little, leaning down to kiss his shoulder. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, exhaling through his nose and letting his eyes sink closed for a moment.

“Say it.”

He looked at her. “Hmm?”

“We deserve it,” she urged him, “say it! It feels good. We deserve this!” She was shouting it now, and he leaned over to cover her mouth with his own, momentarily hushing her.

He pulled back, gently placing one more kiss on either side of her dimpled grin. “We deserve this,” he breathed.

“Theeeere ya go,” she murmured.

He chuckled, starting the car and pulling out from their spot, making his way through the mostly-quiet streets of early-morning New Orleans. They moved away from the French Quarter and the houses got smaller, more worn, but seemed more real as well, more filled with the actual lifeblood of the city. Darcy watched it all slip away without comment. It wasn't quite the grand time she'd been hoping for, but she was still happy to be leaving that thing behind them. Even if she did feel a little sliver of guilt digging at her that they didn't tell somebody, that they hadn't found a way to put him down. Bucky turned onto Route 90, headed north, and Darcy sank deeper into her seat, only the dark outline of the bayou passing by her window now. They'd been driving in calm silence along the dark highway for about thirty minutes when under his breath Bucky muttered, “Shit.”

Instinctively, Darcy twisted in her seat to look behind them. This wasn't her first rodeo, and they'd been tracked enough times by now that she knew Bucky's “god-damn-it-we're-being-followed” face by heart. Sure enough, a pair of high beams were shining directly into their car through the back window. Judging by their height, she was guessing they belonged to the massive pickup truck of some insecure, over-compensating asshole. She groaned.

“Ugh, come on world, just leave us the fuck alone for a while!” she groused, even as Bucky was pulling the car over to the side of the dark country lane. Only the sounds of the groaning and hooting swamp stretching away from them on either side of the road filled the air. That and her heavy, anxious breathing. He checked his side mirrors even as he pointed to the glove compartment, and Darcy silently complied, opening it and handing him the loaded Glock before withdrawing the revolver for herself. She pulled open the canister to find it fully loaded, and spun it shut with satisfaction, tucking it under her right leg, where someone peering into the driver's window might not see it. 

Bucky rolled the window all the way down, then sighed with exasperation when Logan bent down, folding his arms as he leaned into the car and waved amicably at Darcy. She offered a small wave and a tight smile in return, but her right hand remained tucked under her leg, holding her gun.

“Evenin' folks,” he offered, grinning sardonically at them.

“My girl already told you everything we know about your feral pal,” Bucky barked at the man, glaring at the hands hanging over his lap.

“Yeah. About that. Thing is... yer girl, she's just my feral pal's type. And if he saw her, well... I'm thinkin' he's gonna put in the work to find her again,” Logan responded calmly. “Figured my best chances of findin' him would be to just follow ya outta town, see what happened. Except... where the fuck are we, exactly?” He pulled his head out of the window, taking stock of the thick, dark sandbar willows swaying one side of the road, the quiet rustle of the briny waters moving through the cattails and maiden-cane on the other.

“The scenic route,” Darcy said in a hushed voice. She'd felt a chill pass down her spine at the indication that that... animal... might be, what? Looking for her? Interested in her? _Hunting_ her? Her entire body felt cold, and when Logan ducked his head back into the window, he frowned at the sight of her pale, shaken face.

“No reason to worry, darlin',” he said, and Bucky's leather-gloved hands audibly tightened against the leather steeling wheel. Logan eyed them, then Bucky's face, before adding, “Easy, bub, just bein' friendly. Making sure we all get home safe and sound.”

“Not looking for friendship,” Bucky hurled back, but the swarthy man merely snorted, tilting his head and lifting a dark eyebrow at that.

“Ya might still need some help, if that brother of mine decides he'd like to get to know yer girl a little better,” he answered, in a cold tone laced with warning.

“That... that... he's your... your brother?” Darcy sputtered.

From the other side of the car, a deep voice, like the scraping of stone against stone replied, “That was a long time ago. We're more like acquaintances now.”

Darcy began to scream at the horrid apparition of Sabretooth's savage, leering face in her window, which was exactly when the passenger door was ripped away from its hinges, hurled carelessly by the creature into the brackish waters behind him, and she felt his huge, clawed hand wrap around her throat, slowly crushing her windpipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I fully intended to write this thing without a sex scene. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men... they lead to smutty interludes, apparently.


	3. le dénouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “there was something about   
>  that city, though   
>  it didn't let me feel guilty   
>  that I had no feeling for the   
>  things so many others   
>  needed.   
>  it let me alone.”
> 
> ###### "Young in New Orleans", Charles Bukowski

#### New Orleans, somewhere along Route 90 North

His pupils were constricted so tightly they were just blips, tiny scorched islands in the sea of his gleaming, tawny irises. Time had slowed to a syrupy crawl, and Darcy felt pinned, dissected, riveted by those hungry golden eyes.

That's funny—she noted with detached interest—she'd thought they were black.

Her sneaker-clad feet kicked fruitlessly at the air as she dangled from his hand. He stared right back, unblinking, and when she managed to push just enough air up past the brutal pressure of his fingers on her trachea to cry out, all that escaped was a pathetic, strangled squawk. Victor pulled her in closer, bending his arm. Her legs still swung desperately but she couldn't land her foot anywhere vital, anywhere that hurt him. He looked almost amused at her efforts, and he rested his nose against her collarbone, inhaling deeply.

“Sweet,” he rumbled.

Outrage broke through the oxygen-starved trance, and suddenly she could hear the sounds of Bucky moving towards them, of Wolverine shouting to put her down. 

Darcy gathered what little wherewithal she had left, lifted the revolver still dangling loosely from her right hand, and shot two bullets into his groin.

A lot things happened in quick succession after that, time seemingly dancing double time to catch up once Victor dropped her and stumbled back, howling in pain. Bucky was there immediately, pulling her up into his arms in a bridal carry before she could even register the harsh impact of her tailbone hitting the roadside gravel. She buried her head in his shoulder, wishing the whole world away. Behind Logan's truck, Victor's bellowing was replaced by the sound of two men grunting with effort and aggression, followed a moment later by a massive splash.

The next second, she was gently deposited into the passenger side of the Chevelle, Bucky reaching for the seat belt and pulling it across her chest, securing her to the leather seat. She whimpered, clutching at his hand, and he leaned in to press his face against hers.

“I'm getting' you outta here, doll,” he promised, his voice ragged. “Just hold on.”

She whimpered again, but he was gone, a momentary blur in the Chevelle's headlights as he strode around the front of the car and slid into the seat next to hers.

“But...” she tried, and realized her throat was on fire. The shock had dulled the sensation momentarily, but now that she was free from whatever grip the beast had held on her she fully felt the pain. Just the single word sent her into a paroxysm of coughing.

“Don't hurt yourself, angel,” he said softly, pulling her into an embrace.

She shook her head at him. They couldn't go, she thought. Not when the man who'd tried to help them was fighting that thing tooth and nail. It wasn't right.

“Wuh... Wolverine,” she croaked.

Bucky's eyes on her were probing, haunted, seemingly understanding her point at once, and he spared only a second's glance out the rear window to observe the shapes still thrashing against one another in the dark waters. He nodded jerkily, taking a deep breath, then unbuckled her, moving out of the car and tugging her across the armrest until she was seated behind the wheel. He placed the keys in her hand.

“Alright, Darcy. I'll try to help. You see this thing goin' south, you don't wait around. Got it? Just get out of here. I'll catch up with you, I'll find you after,” he directed her, his voice still gentle. She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

“Don't...” she tried. It was agony, the movement of air across her ravaged vocal cords. The tears spilled over, searing paths down her cheeks. “Die,” she managed, grabbing at his thick dark hair and pulling him in for a kiss. He came willingly, his lips slotting against hers as perfectly as ever, this gesture by now a comfort as essential as breathing. When he pulled away, he looked anguished. But she was right, he knew she was, they couldn't take the chance that the brute might run free. So he reached for the Colt M4 he'd left on the back seat and withdrew, straightening and moving cautiously towards the sounds of water-logged brawling.

## ⚜

“So Gambit sent 'im on his way, yeah. He not gon' bodder us no more,” Remy concluded, smirking with satisfaction.

Marie shot him a sharp, knowing look, one eyebrow arched in disbelief, and then returned to gazing out at the quiet street before them. She took a sip of her beer but said nothing, simply flexing the bare feet she'd propped up against the railing of Remy's front porch, causing her rocking chair to tilt back.

“Sugar, it ain't never gon' be over,” she said, at last. She brushed her hair—rich chocolate brown, with that one distinctive white lock—behind her ear, and relaxed her neck, her head resting against the tall chair-back.

Remy took a long pull of his beer, then shifted in his own rocking chair uneasily. He waited for her to continue, but for once Marie was not speaking rashly, not hurling herself forward without thought. Her mute introspection stretched for a moment, then two, and then the eerie stillness of the early hour calcified into a solid wall between them. Still she rocked, sipping her beer every now and then. Her long, pale legs gleamed in the ruddy streetlight. Remy found he had forgotten what they were discussing, mesmerized by the rare treat of seeing so much treacherous skin bare before him.

Finally, she sighed. “Maybe we'd be better off if we did more than jus' git ourselves off the hook with them. Maybe we should play nice.”

He sucked in the evening's humid air, casting about for serenity. “You wan' be an X-man, cherie?” he asked, his voice dripping accusation.

“Nah, hun. Don't be like that. I was runnin' for a long time 'fore I met you, and I don't wanna run no more. They change their mind, come back to collect some debt they think we owe 'em, ah just...” she paused again, upending the beer then placing it on the weathered boards of the porch beside the chair. “Ain't you tired, Remy? Some days ah git so tired of fightin'... feels like mah head's so heavy s'about t'fall off mah shoulders and roll on down the street.”

“What chyoo fixin' t'do?”

Marie smiled, reaching across the space between their chairs to run her fingers carefully over the gloved back of his hand. “I wanna know what it feels like to do the raight thang, Remy,” she answered, her husky voice breaking slightly. “Maybe ah wanna be someone who helps people. Maybe ah don't wanna jus' take and take all the tahme, even if it _is_ what ah was born to do.”

He looked at her, the fiery red of his eyes glowing in the dim light. Finally, he shrugged in defeat. “Mais, Marie, we try dis your way. You know where Logan to?”

Closing her eyes, she smirked and tapped her temple. “Got jus' enough Charles left up here that ah should be able t'suss it out, sugar.”

Remy stood abruptly, his eyes lingering on her skin longingly for only a second more before he brushed past her and towards the front door. “Bedder put some clothes on den, you know how dey get 'bout you showin' off like dat.” He moved inside before she could answer, which is why he missed Marie's hand's tightening on the warped armrests of her rocking chair until the wood began to give, crumbling between her fingers. The strength was a residual effect of a not-so-accidental brush against Logan a few weeks prior, when she was trying to interpret his demand—lightly veiled as a request—that they help him find his brother.

Remy's words had hit a nerve, but Marie reminded herself that she had at least moved past touching people for her own profit. She tried to restrict the use of her parasitic gift to self-defense, a category under which she'd decided getting Logan's motives counted. If she could move past the hand-to-mouth life she'd fallen into and begin using the so-called gift she'd suffered from since she was fifteen damn years old to help people, rather than to just make money for her and Remy?

Well, she might even deserve to be an X-Man one day, like Charles had said he knew she would be when he'd caught her and Remy sneaking into his Westchester school that night. He'd said it right before she'd touched him, although once they'd been restrained and Charles had come to she'd at least been able to find the good grace to apologize for that rash decision. When he'd said it, before she'd put him down, he'd smiled so confidently that Marie had almost believed him, could almost envision a life for herself on the other side of the law. And she'd liked that vision.

So. Baby steps.

## ⚜

“Stop! Get back in the car, get outta here!” Logan barked out, from the headlock Victor was holding him in. “Let me handle this, bub!”

“Can't do that,” Bucky muttered, gun still aimed squarely at the furrow between Victor's eyes while he inched closer to the side of the road.

Bucky had the shot. He was ready to put this insane mutant down, regardless of whose brother he was. He was a breath away from taking it when the sky above them filled with the deafening whine of a high-powered jet. Bucky hesitated, wondering if Darcy had called Steve after all.

It's not that it would be so bad to have him here, he reasoned with himself. The men could even talk, maybe, after they dealt with this fiasco. His finger relaxed on the trigger as he considered what it would mean if Darcy _had_ called his one-time best friend or the son of the man he'd murdered. It was just... he'd asked Darcy to trust him, to leave the Avengers out of it, and at the thought that she hadn't...

The sound got louder and the sky began to fill with light as the jet approached the lonely highway. Perhaps it was pure luck that no one had driven past on the road during the ten-odd minutes that had comprised this entire hellish encounter. Perhaps people in this part of the country knew better than to take joyrides around the bayou at this time of night. Either way, Bucky had been grateful for the lack of distraction while he slunk out of the car and approached the fighting men.

The distraction the jet now provided seemed to be just what Logan needed to break free from the hold Victor had restrained him in. With a growl as feral and vicious as any that Bucky had heard from the wilder brother, the man who called himself Wolverine clenched his two fists and six long, sharp claws slid out of the skin between his knuckles, extending to almost a foot in length in an instant before he stabbed them through the fleshy exterior of Victor's forearm.

Two mutants, Bucky realized. Although his finger had relaxed slightly, it still rested on the trigger and he continued to watch both men warily from behind his automatic rifle.

Victor howled anew, the same pained and indignant response he'd given when Darcy had wounded him so intimately, his grip on Logan loosening enough for the shorter man to wrest free and out of arm's length.

Meanwhile, the jet hovered above them for a moment, then began a direct descent. Bucky wondered idly if it could even land properly on the small country road but to his surprise he realized that the vehicle which looked so imposing over his head was, in actuality, fairly sleek. Its wings folded upwards as it neared the road and by the time its wheels quietly made contact with the faded and cracked asphalt, it fit just fine. Even before its engines were off a door in front of the right wing was thrust open and a staircase extended down to the ground.

Out stepped a statuesque, leather-clad redhead. She moved down the stairs quickly, gracefully, then pulled up short when she spotted Bucky, who had turned his gun on her. He arched an eyebrow skeptically, and she gave him a tight smile.

“You can put that gun down, Sergeant Barnes,” she said kindly, her deep voice calm and steady, “We're here to help.”

Bucky did not follow her suggestion.

A lithe, uptight-looking man appeared in the doorway next, moving down the stairs and gently brushing his hand against the woman's. His wedding ring, Bucky noticed, was an ornate metal filigree, and it matched the one on her own ring finger. He was in good shape, his wide shoulders and trim waist almost managing to make the leather jumpsuit look respectable. The only odd aspect of his features was a thick-framed, red-tinted pair of glasses he wore, which his hand raised to rest against as he spoke.

“Out of the way,” he ordered brusquely.

“Scott,” the woman tsked at him, before trying again. “We're with, uh, Logan over there, Sergeant.”

At that Bucky glanced back at the two men. Victor had once again gained the upper hand, and was using his full body weight to keep his thrashing, flailing brother submerged under the water.

“Which one's Logan,” he spit out.

“The one that hasn't tried to kill you, I'd bet,” replied the man who was apparently named Scott.

“He can't be killed,” Bucky warned them, pivoting on his heel as he refocused on his mission—putting a bullet between the eyes of the man who'd hurt his girl.

The redhead sighed. “He can, actually, but that's not why we're here. He's just... going to take a little nap.”

With a minute movement of his fingers against his visor, Scott's glasses were suddenly no longer just glasses. A beam of blazing red light shot out from the rose-tinted glass, directly at the feral mutant's back. Bucky could feel the heat of it from where he was standing, and carefully took a step back. When the light made contact with Victor's fur coat-clad back, he released Logan. He rolled over to dunk his now singed flesh in the cool waters and Logan, having emerged soaking and furious from where his brother had been drowning him, reached for his throat, aiming his claws at the larger man's eyes.

“Logan,” came the deep-voiced woman's warning.

He looked up. “Jean,” he breathed, and Bucky removed his finger from the trigger upon seeing the look of affection—adoration, really—that for a fleeting second splashed across the man's face and then disappeared, replaced by his usual surly smirk.

“Good to see you too, Logan. How am I? Oh, I've been fine. Yeah, you're welcome for saving your life. By the way, could you not kill Sabretooth at this particular moment? We've worked out a deal with Magneto, and we kind of need him alive,” Scott requested in a snarky tone.

Logan lifted an eyebrow, saying nothing. Instead he simply released Victor, who sprung up with a snarl, eyes trained on the leather-clad couple and ready to attack. Jean rolled her shoulders, her eyes twinkling as she winked at Bucky, then raised both hands towards the feral mutant, extending her fingers. He froze mid-step, groaning in distress and anger. “If you could stop complaining darling, now would be an excellent time to tranquilize him,” she directed her husband serenely.

The man, whose eyewear had once more become simply an odd fashion statement, pulled a small package from his pocket. He crossed the road, peering at Logan expectantly, and held out a syringe he'd withdrawn from the package.

Logan huffed in annoyance. He snatched the syringe from Scott's hand, testing it to make sure there was no air within, then tromped through the brackish waters and reedy flora to plunge the needle into Victor's neck.

From behind him, Bucky heard her get out of the car and for a moment, he and all the mutants paused what they were doing so they could observe Darcy pull herself up to her full height. She blushed when she realized she had everyone's attention, then squared her shoulders and marched up to wrap her arm around Bucky's waist. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, taking a moment to ignore the strange and inexplicable things happening in front of him and simply bury his nose deep in his girl's citrus-scented hair.

“We... okay...?” she croaked. He nodded, putting the safety lock on the gun before gently lowering it to the ground.

When he looked up, Jean had returned her attention to the now unconscious feral mutant...

...who was floating four feet off the ground. Bucky stiffened, pulling Darcy closer, and she whimpered against his chest where her face was buried. When she looked back to see what had elicited his reaction, she gasped.

“Whaa...” she started, before he put his finger to her lips. She nodded, then watched silently. The readhead, her focus laser sharp while she seemingly moved the towering mutant through air with only her mind, directed his body towards the entrance of the jet.

“Ahem. So. My name's Scott, this is my wife Jean, I'm assuming you've met Logan and on behalf of all mutants everywhere I'd just like to apologize for anything rude that he's said to you. And, uh, for Victor too, I suppose. You don't have to tell us who you are, Sergeant Barnes, since it's kind of our job to be up-to-date on strange cases like yours. Are you two okay?”

Scott's face was mostly enigmatic behind the large glasses frames, although a nigh-undetectable smirk twisted his lips as he goaded Logan indirectly and heard the man huff again in irritation. His slightly boyish voice had a wry, dry quality to it that Bucky thought lent it some credibility, authority. The man extended his hand to Logan, who was making his way out of the water. “I've been very well behaved, _Cyclops_ ,” Logan answered, gruffly, yanking on Scott's hand a littler harder than necessary as he climbed up onto the gravel.

“Good to hear, I'm sure the Professor will have a gold star ready for you,” Scott answered, giving him a sarcastic grin. Turning back to the pair, he tilted his head again, asking in a gentler voice, “Seriously, Miss Lewis, are you alright? Looks like you've got a nasty abrasion on your neck there.”

Darcy nodded at him silently, giving him a thumbs up. He nodded back, then after a moment's pause he added, “Still, if you need medical attention, we're headed back to Westchester...”

“No.” Bucky answered bluntly. “We can handle it.” Both men glanced at him oddly at that, but he felt Darcy squeeze him reassuringly and when he looked down at her, she smiled and nodded her agreement. Westchester was too close to New York City, and they weren't ready yet.

Jean, having returned from securing Victor inside the jet, nodded at the group. “It's so nice to finally meet you, we've seen so much about you in the news,” she started, her voice warm and friendly. Her face fell when the couple stiffened. “Or... not really, just... in passing,” she amended lamely. “Well... we should be going. Logan, we could use your help managing Victor until the hand-off and... Charles has turned up a couple leads up around Alkali Lake that I think he'd like to pass on to you...”

She smiled at the man, and Bucky watched in awe as the man's gruff demeanor evaporated. “Sure thing, Jeanie,” Logan mumbled. He bumped Scott's shoulder as he passed, then paused in front of Darcy and Bucky. "Want a truck?" he asked offhandedly. Bucky frowned but Darcy nodded, grinning widely, and Logan reached into the sodden pocket of his jeans to pull out a set of keys which he then tossed to the couple. The super soldier caught them in his left hand a second before they made contact with his face, and Logan chuckled softly to himself. He turned, making his way towards the jet's staircase. “Nice catch, bub. Take care'a yerselves, you two,” he offered congenially, before turning and climbing up into the plane.

Scott nodded curtly, before following. Jean lingered, stepping close enough to Darcy that she could gingerly press her cool, elegant fingers against the bruised skin of her throat. “It's okay, I'm a doctor,” she murmured. Darcy exhaled nervously but let her examine the wound. Bucky watched the interaction silently, his hands never straying from where they rested on Darcy's hips.

“Did you lose consciousness?” Darcy shook her head. 

“That's good. Any pain now, like there's something stuck in your throat or you've got Strep?” Darcy nodded. 

“Trouble breathing?” Another shake of her head. 

“Good.” She probed gently for another moment, then concluded, “It was Victor, wasn't it? I know this is not going to make you feel any better, but the good news is that he didn't squeeze you as tightly as he could've. Promise me you'll find a doctor if you experience any problems with your memory, muscle function, hearing, or any anxiety.” The woman stared directly into Darcy's eyes, and she felt like a deer trapped in the headlights. Like she was being x-rayed.

She nodded obediently.

“Good,” Jean said again, then smiled softly at her. She pulled a card out of a pocket on her belt, handing it to the injured girl. It read—Dr. Jean Grey-Summers, MD—and listed an address in Westchester. Turning to Bucky, she murmured, “Keep a lookout for a concussion, just to be safe. I know you want to ask, and the jet is called the RS-150 Blackbird. She's a beaut, isn't she? Anyway, listen... you've both been through a lot and you're very brave, but there's no shame in asking for help. Trust me.” Darcy looked at her questioningly, and Bucky frowned when she addressed the question he'd had about the jet but hadn't voiced, but Jean simply shrugged, tapped her index finger against her temple, then turned back towards the mysterious transport and boarded it without further comment.

## ⚜

“Shit, damn,” Marie growled, squeezing the clutch and pressing her foot down on the gear lever as she downshifted the bike.

“Wat de madder?” Remy asked into her ear. He was draped over her back, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

“We missed out on all the action,” she muttered. She brought the motorcycle to a stop, killing the engine before allowing Remy to jump off. She followed after shoving the kickstand into place. Remy took a look around; they were in the middle of nowhere on Route 90 North. All he could see was an old Chevy Chevelle and what he knew at once was Logan's massive truck behind it, both pulled to one side of the road. As he approached, he realized there were two people sitting in the back seat of Chevelle and that its passenger door was missing.

“Don't say anythang stupid,” Marie hissed, before leaning down to poke her head in the window of the driver-side door. In the back seat was a muscular dark-haired man, suspiciously gloved even in the soupy Louisiana night, and on his lap, cradled in his arms, was a dark-haired girl.

Oh, well. If she couldn't help the X-Men, maybe she could still earn some brownie points by helping out some friends of the Avengers. At least—Marie paused momentarily—she thought they were, if she was reading them correctly. She silently sent out a prayer for the telepathy she'd picked up from Charles to stick around just a little while longer.

“Hi y'all, my name's Rogue and he's, uh, Gambit. Well, that's what we call ourselves and y'all can call us that, too, if y'want. We just saw your car here on the road and it looks a lil' worse for the wear, maybe y'all need a hand?” she asked in the treacly voice of someone who was not used to offering kindness.

The man glared up at her, and the girl sniffed against his chest, before raising her head. Marie gasped at the ugly bruise blooming across her throat. “Damn,” she blurted out without thinking. “He do that to you, sugar?”

The man stiffened, his glare darkening to a glower, but the girl shook her head vehemently. She shoved an elbow in the man's ribs, glancing at the missing door then at Marie meaningfully.

He sighed. “I'm James,” he grunted, “And this here's my girl Darcy. We had something like an... encounter... with a pretty dangerous fella. But he's gone now.”

“Big and blonde and mean?” Remy asked, as he plopped himself down in the passenger seat in front of them. Bucky nodded, surprise twisting his mouth as he took in the man's strange eyes. Remy snorted with disdain for Victor before studying the Chevelle's dashboard. “Dis a nice nice car, mon amie, you fixin' t'sell it?” Marie shot him a warning glance.

“No.”

“Mais, you change yo' mind, I take her off yo' hands for you, ça c’est bon?”

“Uh...” Bucky answered, unsure. He felt Darcy stifle a giggle and smiled sheepishly down at her. “I ain't sellin'. Actually, we, well...” He knew what he needed to say, but the words seemed unwilling to move themselves from his brain to his tongue. “We... we could use some help, actually. Our car's a mess here and Darcy, uh...”

“You need some TLC and some rest, hun,” Marie said, the gentle tone of her voice sounding slightly more natural this time. “Hows about you come back with us, you let Gambit drive this ol' thing and settle yo' selves in the truck with me and we'll put y'all up at our place for a lil' while? Just 'till y'all are up on your feet again. C'mon now, I ain't takin' no for an answer.”

With that, she tugged on the lever next to the driver seat's cushion and slid the seat forward, then extended her gloved hand out to Darcy. The woman looked at it silently for a moment, glancing at Bucky with a confident nod, before giving her a small smile and taking it. Bucky followed, his hands finding their way back to Darcy's waist once they were both standing. He was hovering nervously, like he was afraid the girl was gonna fall over any second—Marie observed shrewdly—although she let it pass without comment. There'd be time for digging later.

Darcy gestured to Marie's bone-white lock of hair, then gave her a thumbs up, smiling again. Marie barked out a husky laugh, saying, “You like that, huh? Yeah, makes quite a statement. Gettin' it wasn't no picnic but you know what? I'm rather fond of it mah self.”

“She's unique,” Remy offered from the driver's seat of the Chevelle, adjusting it and holding out his hand for the keys. “Magnifique.” 

With one last suspicious look Bucky dropped the keys into Remy's gloved hand, then turned to meet Darcy's eyes with an unspoken question. She nodded again, and made towards Logan's truck. “Trust me, y'all are gonna love our house. It's real cozy like, and ah'm a great cook. And when you're feeling a lil' better, we can show you 'round the town some! Git y'all t'some of the local haunts, not them tourists traps you probably seen,” Marie rambled absently, her raspy voice warming as she sold herself on the idea while concurrently trying to sell it to them.

"You, uh, want some help gettin' the bike onto the truck?" Bucky asked, already moving towards the parked motorcycle across the road.

"Nah, sugar, ah can—" Marie paused, watching with surprise as Bucky easily lifted the heavy Harley-Davidson and began carrying it towards Logan's abandoned truck. "We'll ah'll be damned, ain't you a strong one?" she murmured, then added loudly, “We're good people, really, you'll see! Right, Remy?” She offered a warm smile to Darcy, who tentatively returned it.

She didn't seem to notice her slip from codename to birth name, and neither Darcy nor Bucky said anything about it. Bucky continued loading the large bike onto the truckbed while Darcy shifted her gaze towards the eerily black-and-red eyed man, who smiled indulgently, before answering, “Oui, cherie, we good folk. You gon' like it to our house, jus' wait. We gon' get you back up to health, fix up dis beautiful car real nice and den... laissez les bons temps rouler!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the delay in posting this ending... Turns out writing a cliffhanger is really fun and then writing the follow-up is kind of difficult. Hope this suffices! Thanks for reading, if you liked/hated the story feedback is always appreciated! ♥


End file.
